


The Secret

by Fatlockandfeeding



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Depression, Fatlock, M/M, Mpreg, Teenlock, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 12:53:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2310299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fatlockandfeeding/pseuds/Fatlockandfeeding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Request: Mycroft is pregnant, scared, and gets a little fatter every day. He's worried about what the father will think. (any pairing with Mycroft).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret

**Author's Note:**

> I made it teenlock, anon. Hope that's okay :). Mystrade.

**The Secret**

**Summary:** See above. Also I made it teenlock, anon. I hope that’s okay. Mystrade.  
  
 **Triggers/Warnings:** Fat character, weight gain, mpreg, fat appreciation, depression, secret pregnancy, anxiety. PG-13

_3 months:_

Mycroft stared down at the accusing white stick in his hand, his mouth dry and his heart racing with fear as the two pink lines on the stick seemed to grow thicker and more defined the longer he looked at them. Pregnant. He was pregnant.   
  
Without thinking he wrapped sheet after sheet of toilet paper around the white stick, and then stuck it in the bin by the toilet, as if getting rid of the evidence of the pregnancy could somehow get rid of the pregnancy itself. Then he bit his lip and forced himself to take in deep breaths through his nose, which helped the feeling of panic flooding his body, but the smell of the urine in the room only worsened his nausea. 

He was a fool, a fool and an idiot and just blood /stupid/. Of course, it had seemed like such a good idea at the time, when his heat had come on early while he was in town, and he’d vaguely agreed to let Greg Lestrade, one of the local boys, escort him home. They’d been delayed along the way, obviously, when Greg had pulled his car over into a heavily wooded area and knotted Mycroft right there in the boy’s old clunky cadillac, bought second hand, Mycroft vaguely deduced, and fixed up by the boy who was now knotting him so hard that Mycroft cried out in pleasure and dug his fingernails into the other boy’s shoulders.   
  
It had been amazing, and to be honest Mycroft hadn’t even regretted it. He was 16, and awkward, and he went away to boarding school while everyone else in his village went to the local day school, and Greg Lestrade was gorgeous, suave and charming, and 18 years-old. He was going to the local sixth-form college and Mycroft had held a torch for him for months. So at the time giving up his heat had seemed perfectly reasonable, and Greg had used a condom, so he’d overall been very pleased with how grown-up and responsible he’d been.

  
  


And now he was pregnant. Three months pregnant, and his whole life was crashing down before his eyes. Greg would be long gone now, they’d had sex over the summer, just after Greg had finished his A-levels, and he’d told Mycroft proudly that he was headed for London soon, to join the force. Mycroft put a shaking hand over his belly and swallowed. Oh God, this was terrifying -

  
  


There was a loud banging on his cubicle door, and Mycroft jumped, shaking out of his reverie.   
  
“Oi, Holmes! You got the runs or something? Come on!”  
  
Mycroft jumped up and left the stall, not bothering to meet his classmate’s eyes as he darted out of the bathroom and back towards his room.   
  
 _5 months:_

  
  


Mycroft looked unhappily at his reflection and ran a hand down the curve of the bump, coated by a thickening layer of fat which made the shirts on his school uniform strain. Mycroft had long ago given up on trying to button his school blazer, but now the wool-knit jumper he was wearing was starting to stretch and shift across his growing belly too, and soon it would be riding up, along with the shirt. After his morning sickness had faded Mycroft had found himself starving, and he’d eaten with relish, digging into the somewhat sub-par school food and using his weekly allowance sent by his parents to buy extra sweets and greasy food from the small cafe on his school campus.   
  
And now he was paying for it, because his belly was getting huge and flabby, and his unforgiving clothes would do nothing to hide it.   
  
Still, in some ways it was good, because he could pass it off to his parents as simply getting fat, and if anyone saw him in the village they might not automatically guess pregnant, which meant that it wouldn’t get back to Greg, or Greg’s parents.   
  
Mycroft wasn’t sure what he was doing, or why he was hiding it, or what he was going to do when he got even bigger, but every time he thought of telling his parents his throat dried up and he was filled with fear, so he just said nothing in his letters and phone calls home.

  
  


But now he had to go home for the first time since he’d discovered, and when he looked in the mirror he felt like his appearance screamed PREGNANT PREGNANT PREGNANT.  
  
Two hours later, when his train pulled into the station at home, Mycroft tugged down his grey jumper and smiled nervously at his parents whose faces had turned into startled masks at the sight of him. His little brother, Sherlock, complete with his 9 year-old set of manners, snorted and pointed at Mycroft.   
  
“Look! Mycie got  _fat_!”  
  
Mycroft started, and then looked down at the little boy aggressively. “Shut up, _Billy._ ”  
  
Sherlock squawked at the use of the hated nickname, and their mother rolled her eyes and sighed. “Boys, honestly, you’ve been back together for less than a minute, can’t you try to get along? Hello Mycie dear.” She drew him into her arms and kissed his cheeks. “Not to worry,” she whispered, “we’ll have a nice salad for dinner. By the time the holidays are over you’ll be well on your way to losing it.”  
  
Mycroft smiled bitterly, and nodded, swallowing down his fear.

  
  


_7 months:_

He was home for a weekend from school, partly because he so badly needed new clothes that his mother had insisted he come home so that she could see him for herself. She’d been shocked, and Mycroft’s head had hung in shame, drawing his arms over his belly as if he could cover it, wincing when he felt the baby roll in his belly beneath his thickening limbs. He’d continued to steadily gain weight, and his baby seemed to be growing well, and the result was the Mycroft Holmes looked rather huge. His belly had grown flabby and started to sag a little, and red stretch marks littered the bottom of his paunch as well as his sides.   
  
That night he was sitting in his bedroom, wearing his new and rather large pyjamas, when Sherlock came into his room without knocking, and tilted his head to one side, narrowing his eyes.   
  
“Yes?” Mycroft said tiredly, “What is it that you want?”  
  
Sherlock sat on the edge of Mycroft’s bed, swinging his small legs back and forth. “I’ve been playing deductions,” he said matter-of-factly.  
  
“Oh?” Mycroft said, sounding bored, “Found out anything interesting?”  
  
Sherlock nodded. “Yeah. You’re having a baby.”  
  
Mycroft’s mouth fell open, and he felt his heart start to race. He put a hand over the mound of his belly, and then winced when Sherlock smiled triumphantly, realising that he had given his brother the very last shred of proof that he’d needed.   
  
“Are you going to tell Mummy and Daddy?” Sherlock said, “You can’t not say anything. What if you go into labour at school?” Sherlock hummed. “I don’t know how far along you are, since you’re so fat, but it has to be quite far along.”  
  
Mycroft’s breath became erratic, and suddenly his eyes filled with tears and he covered his face with his hands. Sherlock blinked, looked a little penitent, and jumped up, running over to Mycroft to rub his back. “I…don’t cry, Mycie. At least we’ve got money, right? I bet Mummy and Father will help you and everything. Please don’t cry…”  
  
Mycroft sniffed, and looked at his brother. “I…I can’t tell them, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock hugged his brother, encircling the other boy’s neck with his small, scrawny arms. “Do you want me to tell them for you?”  
  
Mycroft waited a few moments, and then nodded.   
  
 _9 months:_  
  
“It’s simply irresponsible, young man,” Mummy said, frowning as she held up an avocado and squeezed it, “to wait so long to tell us. I shudder to think how you looked after yourself for those first 7 months, my goodness! You’re going to be a mother, really ought to…”  
  
Mycroft nodded along with everything his mother was saying, used to her rants by now. Two months ago, when Sherlock had informed their parents Mycroft was pregnant, they’d withdrawn him from his school and kept him home to prepare for the birth of their grandchild. That didn’t mean, however, that Mycroft hadn’t gotten into enormous amounts of trouble.  
  
“ - and don’t think you’ve gotten out of going to school, young man. As soon as that baby’s born and you’re recovered you father and I will be looking into day schools and - “  
  
“Mummy,” Mycroft said tiredly, stretching and pressing a hand to the arch of his back, “I  _want_ to go to school, don’t worry.”  
  
Mummy paused, and then looked at him with sympathy in her eyes. “My poor baby,” she said gently, reaching out to pat his heavy belly, “you’ve grown so large. You take after me in that respect, I’m afraid. The Beaufort side of the family always has uncomfortable pregnancies.”  
  
It still made Mycroft blush when someone pointed out his size, although they did it even more often recently, since the last time he’d been weighed at the doctor’s office he’d been informed that he’d put on just over 60 pounds with this pregnancy. He sighed and rounded the corner with his mother, who needed artichoke hearts for the pizza she was making later, and gasped, because standing there in the isle was Greg Lestrade, who if possible was even more good-looking than when Mycroft had last seen him. His regime with the police must have been intensive, because his arms were muscular and toned, and without meaning to Mycroft made a small sound in the back of his throat and grabbed his mother’s hand.   
  
“Mycroft! What are you -” Her eyes fell on the young man down the isle and they widened in dawning recognition, and she turned to Mycroft. “Is that the father?”  
  
“Shhhh!”  
  
But sure enough, Greg had heard and turned around. He blinked when he saw Mycroft, and then Mycroft saw him counting in his head, counting back towards the heat they’d shared, and then he actually  _dropped_ his shopping basket, and he strode forward, his face a clear mask of panic and worry.   
  
“Oh my God! Why didn’t you tell me? It is mine, isn’t it? Oh my God are you okay?”  
  
“I’ll just…get those artichoke hearts,” Mummy said vaguely, before making her way down the isle and leaving Mycroft and Greg alone to talk.   
  
Mycroft swallowed, and then covered his huge belly with one hand. “I…I thought you’d be busy in London. And you never called me, so I didn’t think you’d be interested.”  
  
Greg shook his head. “I…I mean I would have called you, if we lived in the same town, but I figured we’d both had some fun, and that was it, but if you’d _told me_ ,” Greg reached out and put a hand on Mycroft’s belly, “you look gorgeous. How are you? Is the baby healthy? Do you know what you’re having?”  
  
Mycroft’s heart fluttered when Greg touched his belly. “I’m having a girl,” he said quietly, “Mummy and Daddy were surprised. Apparently they mostly have boys in the Holmes family. Not so much on my mother’s side though so…”  
  
Greg sniffed and drew Mycroft into his arms without asking. “A baby girl,” he said quietly, “Jesus…” His hand ran down Mycroft’s plump side. “Can we go somewhere and talk? I want to talk about us, and about the baby.”  
  
Mycroft paused, and then nodded. He could always text his mother, and she’d understand. His daughter shifted inside of him, and Mycroft found himself smiling a little.   
  
The secret was out, and it really wasn’t so bad. 


End file.
